


Feelings

by awoof



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash, Sherstrade Month, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-07
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-09-22 16:11:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9615488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awoof/pseuds/awoof
Summary: Making sense of one's own feelings has never been an easy task. Especially when it comes to a certain detective inspector.Takes place sometime in S3.In which a lot left unsaid. Actually, in which everything left unsaid.





	

**Author's Note:**

> First time writing pre-slash and experimenting with stream of consciousness. Not beta'd and not proofread, mainly because it's such experimental writing for me. But I hope you still enjoy this short fic.  
> Kind of my contribution to Sherstrade month?

It wasn’t always like that.

  
He bit down on his tongue, trying hard, for once in his life, to keep his mouth shut.

  
It wasn’t always like that, that itch in his heart that compelled him to snipe at Lestrade whenever he showed up at Baker Street, whenever he stood there, relief smoothing over his countenance without as much as a tick in his jaw, as Sherlock stepped out of the cab and gave him a short glance before focusing his attention to the dead body on the blood-stained gravel along the Thames. Whenever he came over, hovering a foot away from Sherlock as though he were breathing right into his neck and inquiring like a stupid, stupid idiot that he was and that made his muscle unwound then clenched tight in an effort not to lash out.

  
He used to be able to tolerate Lestrade’s stupidity. Amend – a higher tolerance for his stupidity, at least enough that they used to joke around at crime scenes at times when there were no bodies and just a puzzle to solve. Donovan used to smirk and stand at the corner watching them like she knew something he didn’t. Anderson was as imbecilic as he is now.

  
And then, someday, one day, even his silent thoughts became annoying. From the way he stands, the way his warm brown eyes look into his. The way he runs his hand through his hair when he can’t stand Sherlock, leaving behind spikes of silver like a teenager trying to look cool.

  
“Is that why you call yourself Greg?” Sherlock snapped at the man whose light brown jacket brought out the color of his eyes.

  
The mildly amused expression slipped.

  
“That’s his name,” John pointed out, telling Sherlock.

  
“Is it?”

  
“Yes, if you’ve ever bothered to find out,” Lestrade glared.

  
He had felt guilty that night, when he observed the detective inspector nursing a pint in the corner of the inn, alone. He realized then it was not annoyance, nor anger, in his glare. He sipped the beer, not downing it in one go. He looked out of the window, staring at nothing in particular, instead of side-eyeing the two inn keepers with contempt. The glare was just a façade, hiding the hurt.

  
He had watched the man until he finally got up from his table, and Sherlock quickly slipped into the shadows.

  
He didn’t know what had compelled him to stay, to watch. Same as he didn’t know what that itch in his heart was. Perhaps it was guilt. Guilt for losing his temper and lashing out at Lestrade in a way that he knew would hurt him. But then, Lestrade always knew Sherlock didn’t know his first name. It’s irrelevant information, deleted sometime after their encounter, because…

  
He didn’t even know why he had deleted it. He had deleted the reason for deleting his name.

  
…but the point was, he wasn’t responsible for the man’s irrational emotional response to a known fact, was he?

  
But the guilt had persisted, enclosing his every limb, tying them to a stationary spot in time and space.

  
“Sherlock,” Lestrade said, looking at him with concern, “Sherlock?”

  
And it was this very same face, this small frown, this pair of warm brown eyes, back at that inn at Dartmoor. The very same man who had just spent his whole evening drinking to the sad fact that no Sherlock Holmes did not remember his name, which shouldn’t be a sad fact, because facts were facts and there were no adjectives that could be inflicted on it. But Lestrade was sad, regardless of his unreasonable emotional response to a fact. And it didn’t make sense, the way his sadness gave way to overwhelming concern the moment he saw him lurking in the shadow, as if he had forgotten he was being sad, and had forgotten who exactly made him sad in the first place. And he had come up to him, fixing him in that stationary spot in time and space with that same warm brown gaze.

  
“I’m fine,” Sherlock said. He glanced at the body on the wetted, blood-stained gravel. “You are looking for a middle-aged, five feet nine, alcoholic postman who frequented the bowling alley near his home going by ‘Raz.’”

  
“Got it, thanks,” Lestrade said, and turned around to tell at someone to get him Donovan. His work done, Sherlock put his magnifier back in his pocket and put in his gloves. He was about to leave when Lestrade turned back to him abruptly.

  
“You alright?”

  
“Yes, as I have told you, I’m fine. Can I leave?”

  
“And when have you ever asked for anyone’s permission?” Lestrade raised an eyebrow.

  
“Courtesy,” Sherlock replied, and started walking away.

  
“Wait,” Lestrade called after him, “Just like that? No stealing badges?”

  
“I still have plenty,” Sherlock said simply.

  
“Well, I just told you to come tomorrow morning to give a statement. Usually that warrants at least half an hour of childish squabbling and losing half of my articles.”

  
“And you have also made yourself quite clear. Good day, inspector.”

  
He walked a few steps, and then stopped, turning around. Lestrade was still looking at him with a slightly puzzled face.

  
“Oh, and I never did say I didn't steal anything," he said.

  
He watched as Lestrade cursed under his breath and took out his wallet, only to find his ID gone. “Oh you bastard,” Lestrade groaned. But there was no heat, only the warmth of a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

  
The sensation of an itch in his heart came back. But strangely enough, this time he didn’t feel compelled to lash out. Instead he allowed himself to reciprocate a smile.

  
Something changed, and maybe it was just a temporary one. He didn’t know what that was.

 


End file.
